To Clarastella

'Tis not your beautie I admire,
Nor the bright star-light of each eie,
Nor do I from their beams take fire
My loves torch to enlighten, I:
No: 'tis a Glorie more divine
Kindles my tapour at your shrine.

Your comly presence takes not me,
Nor your much more inviting meen;
Nor your sweet looks; the Graces be
(Fair Creature!) in your picture seen.
No: 'tis your soul to which I bow,
'Tis none of these I love, but you.

How blind is that Philosophie
Doth onely nat'ral bodies know?
That views each Orb o'th' glorious skie,
But sees not him that made it so.
I love thy informing part, i'th' whol
And every part, thy all; thy soul.